


Motel

by PoeticPan



Category: Psycho (1960)
Genre: Age Difference, Gay Panic, How Do I Tag, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bury your gays, norman is nervous, not that big but i should probably tag that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 03:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30066165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeticPan/pseuds/PoeticPan
Summary: A cold January night, and a broke young man needs a place to stay.
Relationships: Norman Bates/Original Character(s), Norman Bates/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Motel

**Author's Note:**

> hey lol i wrote this months ago but now i think i've figured out how ao3 works so i can post it :D

Rain pelts into your hair and runs down your neck, sending shivers across your person every few beats. Your coat is not nearly as heavy as necessary for the icy rain that showers around you, but that seems to be the least of your concerns. Your current objective is actually to find a place to sleep.

It takes nearly a half-hour of now soaked walking through the rain for you to finally see the dim glow of a motel sign. “ _ Bates Motel” _ reads in yellow lights.

You check your wallet, and a semi-soggy twenty dollar bill slips from its fake-leather swatch.  _ Yeah, that should be enough for one night. _

The entrance to the building is a plain glass door that had been fogged up from the low temperatures outside. With exhaustion, you push open the door and shuffle in.

For a moment, the lobby is empty, besides yourself, and you take that moment to attempt to adjust your eyes to the bright beige-tinted lighting. 

After that brief moment, another person fills the voided lobby: a tall, tired-looking man, who moves to stand behind the reception desk. 

“C-can I help you?” He asks like he forgot english halfway through his sentence. 

You’re still attempting to focus your eyes, but shamble over to the desk anyways.

“Yes— are there any vacancies? And I'm sorry about showing so late into the evening.”

The man tips his head a little. “It’s nearly 3 in the morning, sir.” He informs you. 

You feel your face burn a shade of pink. “Oh? I hadn’t noticed— been out too long, I suppose.”

The man furrows his eyebrows, and seems concerned. He doesn't voice this concern, however.

You remember why you’re here. Room. Sleep. Exhausted. “Any vacancies?” You repeat, not intending to sound as demanding as you do.

The man blinks at you, before hurrying to flip through the little book present on the desk. He checks it thoroughly before looking up at you.

“We’re actually completely empty at the moment.” He says, smiling sheepishly, as if ashamed by this fact.

You return the smile, meeting his eyes for the first time— disks of a weary dark brown.

“Lucky me.” You attempt a joke. 

His smile widens, just slightly, before he turns his attention back on the book. He pulls a pen from below the desk.

“What’s your method of payment?”

You shake the loose twenty from your wallet and press it to the desk beside the book. 

“Cash. Would this be enough?”

Concern flashes from the man’s eyes again, but all he does is nod.

“Write your name here,” He pauses as he hands you the pen and points out a blank line in the book. “and the date of check-in here.” He points out another blank section of the page.

You scribble your name into the book. _Michael Lewis_ _—— 1/17/1960_.

The man reads over your name and flashes a grin again, before closing the book and turning to grab a key from the selection of hooks on the wall. He turns back and hands you a small silver key labeled over with tape reading  _ 1 _ . 

“Okay then,  _ Mr. Lewis _ , numerical order is my  _ favorite _ kind of order, so you get room one. It’ll be a door down on the left.”

Before you turn to walk down the hallway, you meet his eyes again. “I never got your name, actually.” 

The man looks down at the desk, his face glowing a slight pink. “Norman.” was all he mumbled. 

You smile, trying to keep holding his gaze. You fail at this, as he has now almost purposely turned away from you, and is setting away the book and pen. 

Admitting to the tiny defeat, you turn back and stroll down the hallway and link your key into the doorknob of a door neatly labeled “ _ Room 1”  _ with a finger-sized bronze plate screwed onto the door.

You close and lock the door behind you as you enter, slumping against it with exhaustion. You release the breath you had forgotten you had been holding since you pulled out that pathetic-looking bill. 

With a great amount of effort, you push yourself off of the door and stumble across the room to lay down on the bed. 

Your clothes are still soaked, as is the entirety of your body, but you only have enough energy left in you to kick off your boots, and shove off your coat before you have completely collapsed into the bed.

Nestling your cheek into an off-white pillow, you find yourself reeling into a heavy sleep. 

You are completely unaware of a pair of dark, hazing eyes preening at your figure, a crack behind your room’s door.

***

The first time you awake, your vision is far too bleary to properly tell the time by the clock hanging from the wall beside your bed. You are only vaguely aware of the time via the glittering sunlight that sheared through the thin white curtains.

You attempt to reach out for them, to close those sheer-white curtains and allow your still-seeping exhaustion to take over once again. You fail at closing the curtains, as that would take you getting out of bed. Instead, you simply roll to your opposite side, and nestle yourself to sleep, opting to face the wall instead of the window.

The second time you awake, you blink away the bleariness of your sight, and prop yourself up in the bed. 

Your mind wanders towards the bathroom— and you become aware of the fact that you are still muddy and icy from your wandering last night. Your eyes dart towards the half-open bathroom door. Yes, a shower is definitely necessary. 

Pulling off your shirt as you trudge across the carpeted room and into the bathroom, you glance over yourself in the mirror. 

Your black, matted, and still-soggy hair has lost its shape and instead drifted down to stick out in a thousand different directions. With your hands, you ruffle your hair until it's at least tame enough to look somewhat presentable. The thought comes to mind.  _ Why look presentable? It’s not like there’s anyone you’d want to impress.  _

You remember the nice man at the reception desk last night, Norman. He certainly was worth impressing. 

So, using your fingers, you comb your hair towards the left of your face, then push it back enough to make it seem you  _ actually _ went through it with a real brush.

You’re just about to twist the showerhead’s water on, when a very polite, albeit  _ loud _ knock comes from your room’s door. 

You turn out of the bathroom and pace towards the door, pausing briefly before opening it because  _ right, you don’t have a shirt on _ . Not wanting to make the trip back to the bathroom, you opt to throw your coat on over yourself to hide your bare chest. Well, it covers  _ most _ of your chest anyway.

You open the door to Norman, who you catch as his eyes dart towards your chest for the briefest of moments, before they soar back up to meet yours. That glance is still enough to flush both of your faces a touch more pink.

“S-sorry, did I wake you?” Norman asks in the same tone he had had the night before. 

You shake your head. “No, I was awake. I was just—” You fail to come up with a way to say ‘ _ I was going to take a shower because I wanted to look presentable for you’  _ without making it sound strange. “— I was awake.” You resort to repeating.

Norman smiles. “I was hoping so, actually. I tried to knock earlier, but it seems that you slept ‘till noon.” He informs you.

You flush, a tad embarrassed. “Sorry about that.” You apologize.

Norman waves his hands down. “Oh no,  _ I’m sorry.  _ You have every right to sleep in, after how long you were out last night, apparently.” 

“Thank you.” You say, not knowing how else to respond. You’d rather he not know truly  _ how long  _ you’d been out in the rain, but it seems he only knows that you were out late into the night.

“A-anyway, Mr. Lewis—” 

“Michael.” You correct him.

“Hm?”

“You can use my first name, Norman, it’s Michael.” You inform him as you lean against the door frame.

“Well, erm, Michael,” Norman continues. “I was wanting to see if you had time to have some lunch with me?” He asks, tipping his head as he, too, leans a bit more against the doorframe. 

You smile. “That sounds nice, where would it be?”

Norman taps his foot. “The lobby, preferably.” He says, dodging your obvious notion that it might take place in your room.

“That’ll be nice.” You inform him with a warm smile.

Norman taps his fingertips against the doorframe. “I’ll be making tea, would you be okay with that? Tea?”

You nod. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’ll be okay with tea.” You reassure him while keeping the smile on your lips.

Norman returns it, before pushing himself away from the doorframe and moving to stand in the hallway again. “Okay so, I’ll leave you be—” You catch his eyes glancing down at your torso again. “— and you can come into the lobby as soon as you’re.. done.”

You nod, and Norman promptly walks down the hall and into the lobby.

Closing the door with a quiet sigh, you feel your face grow hot from embarrassment.  _ Wet coat. No shirt. What were you thinking? _

It takes what you think is your very last shrivel of confidence to force you to put on your now closer-to-dry shirt, and march your way out of your room and into the motel lobby.

Norman is waiting there, seated in a relatively nice-looking chair with a relatively nice-looking tray of sandwiches between him and another chair.

You sit across from him, and opt to reach for the sandwich that is closest to you. 

“So,” You began, taking nibbles from your sandwich as to avoid simply wolfing it down. “you run this place all by yourself?” 

Norman shrugs. “I suppose, I mean she—” He cuts himself off, and looks consorted for a moment, before continuing. “— yes, I run this motel by myself.”

Resisting the urge to question him about this ‘she,’ who you are quick to assume as probably just his wife, you take another small bite from your sandwich and query something else.

“So do you live in the building or—”

“I have a house.” Norman says quickly. “An old family house behind the building. The motel used to be owned by my father and run by the family until it eventually just came down to me.” He explains as he reaches to pour the two of you some tea. 

You nod, understanding. “Does it get quiet here a lot? By that, do not alot of patrons show?” You ask, leaning a bit forward in your seat as you watch his lips purse as he thinks of his answer.

“Most of the time, yes. During holidays there’s a family here or there just stopping for the night during trips to relatives houses.  _ Very occasionally _ , a group of women come to stay while they’re— how to place this—  _ hiding _ .”

That sounds intriguing. “Hiding from what?” You ask, quite stupidly in retrospect. 

Norman looks like he’s having trouble finding the right words. “Hiding from trouble.” He says eventually. “Certain women have very… abnormal employment.” He struggles to explain.

You understand almost immediately after he gets the words out. “Are they— hiding from the police, because they’re jobs are illegal and it’s not something a very  _ self-respecting  _ woman should be doing with herself?” You explain in the form of a question.

Sheepishly, Norman nods. 

You can’t help but smirk. “Your patrons are prostitutes on the run.” You confirm quietly.

Norman shivers. “Don’t remind me.” He rolls his shoulders. “Half of them don’t even think to pay with money, they just try to offer their…  _ services. _ ”

You wonder briefly as to why Norman seems so disgusted by the idea of sex, before you remember ‘she,’ his wife.

Also, you remember, they’re prostitutes. _ And have almost definitely caught some disease by their line of work. _

You give him a sympathetic look, and opt to change the subject. “Do you know the nearest city?” You ask after taking a long drink from your cup.

Norman shrugs. “A couple of small towns are here and there but the closest  _ city _ is probably Dallas.” He informs you.

You take another bite from your sandwich and tip your head. “How far away is Dallas?”

“Thirty miles, at least.” He says, staring down at his tea as he attempts the math in his head.

You slump back down in your seat, pondering how long it would take to walk there.

You chuckle quietly. “Guess I have a long walk ahead of me.” You attempt a joke.

The concern that seemed very present last night returns in Norman’s eyes, and he leans forward. 

“Why do you walk everywhere?” He asks.

You shrug, trying to come up with a good enough answer. Failing, you blurt out the truth. “Can’t drive, and I haven’t been able to pay any taxis.”

Norman presses closer. “How old are you?” He asks like a store clerk before selling you liquor.

You stare at his face. “Twenty, how old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.” Norman says, unfocused. His eyes are still searching your face.

“Are you… homeless, Michael?”

You stiffen, and that’s enough for Norman to sigh, lean back into his own chair, and rub the bridge of his nose between his fingers. 

You look away from him, face tinting with shame, and turn your gaze to whatever tiny bug is crawling up the nearest wall.

Norman pushes himself out of his chair and moves to stand between your gaze and the wall. His brown eyes hold no anger, but flakes of sympathy instead. 

“You can stay here, even if— even if she doesn’t want you to. I’ll allow it, but you have to work in the motel.” He conditions.

Your eyes spark with joy, and you stand up to somewhat match his height. You stare at him for a moment, unsure of how exactly to react.

“Thank you.” You manage to mumble quietly. 

Norman’s expression softens. “You’re welcome, Michael.” He replies, holding his hand out for a presumed handshake.

You take it, but are quickly pulled into an embrace, which you happily accept anyway. 

The hug lasts longer than it likely should’ve, in fact it takes close to a solid minute before Norman’s grip around your shoulders loosens and he taps you away. 

“We should finish lunch.” He murmurs. “And afterwards we should get rid of that—” He attempts to swat at the bug buzzing around his head. “— fly.” He gives up on the pursuit of the fly and sits back down to continue eating.

You do as well, and cheerfully begin to finish eating your second sandwich.

Norman quirks an eyebrow and glances up at you after refilling his cup.

“How’d you end up on the streets?” He asks with pursed lips.

You stiffen once again, and take a shaky sip of your own tea. “That’s a story you aren’t ready to hear yet.” You mutter after setting your cup down.

Norman’s eyes flash with another bout of concern, before he nods and just keeps finishing his lunch. 

Once the two of you are done, he takes the tray into another room, leaving you to attempt to deal with the buzzing fly.

It takes many tries, and a lot of clapping your hands together until they’re in physical pain, but eventually you’ve managed to clasp a half-dead fly between your palms. You're currently dropping it in a bush just outside of the entrance to the lobby, when you hear the shrill voice of a much older woman from inside. 

You listen from through the open door as a woman further down the hallway keeps calling for Norman, and after a couple tries, gets a response.

“You said someone’s got a job! Whose got a job? If it’s some young woman I—”

“It’s a young man.” Norman’s voice cut her off in reply. “And yes, Michael will be working with me to run the motel, so now you’re free to relax.” 

The woman’s voice seems to shriek when she next speaks. 

“Michael  _ who _ ? Do you know this man? How do you know he’s not some  _ woman _ in disguise?!”

“Mother, I love you, but you sound as if you’ve gone insane, saying something like that.” Norman’s voice pitches a tired tone. “I’m almost sickly with it.”

_ Ah, so this ‘she’ was his mother, not his wife. _ You aren’t too sure as to why you’re relieved by that.

“If you’re so  _ sickly _ , Norman, then I’ll go back to the house! You have the company now, anyway!” Norman’s mother pipes at the top of her overworked lungs. 

“Alright then, Mother. I’ll be back up this evening.”

You hear the sound of footsteps stomping further down the hallway, and then the slam of the back entrance door. You wince at the door slam, despite being quite far away from it.

You decide to seep back into the lobby, where you can see Norman at the end of the hall, staring at the back exit door. 

You take a couple steps closer to him, and he whips his head around to face you. 

There are slim tears welling at his eyes, but he blinks them away, and turns around completely to face you.

“W-well I suppose you heard all that, hm?” He murmurs. 

Nodding, you take another step closer to him. 

“Well that’s ‘her.’” He explains. “My mother’s been breathing down my neck ever since her fiancée passed, and that was years ago.” He sounds so exasperated even just talking about it.

You take a couple more steps— and you’re both now less than an arm's length apart.

“She’s grown so clingy after his passing. She hates it when women come to stay in the motel, and acts like if I enter a  _ single relationship _ , I’ll completely forget her entire existence.”

Norman pauses his rambling to make eye contact with you. His exasperated expression shifts closer to nervousness, and he puts his hands between himself and you.

You shuffle back, allowing him his notion of space.

“Can I hug you again, Norman?” You ask.

He seems confused at your request, but after a few hesitant seconds he nods.

And then you find yourself buried around his arms, your own gripping at his torso.

His shoulders lose their tension as he allows his chin to nestle into your hair, actively messing it up from its swooped-up state.

You’re okay with this, though. As you too, loosen up and perk your nose just over his shoulder, as that is only how high you can reach.

For a moment, Norman’s grip tightens, and you roll your shoulder blades back to draw his attention to that fact. His grip loosens back to a more comfortable hold.

This hug lasts much longer than your first one, not that the two of you seem to mind, but it certainly is something to note.

It doesn’t last forever, though. It is you who breaks the hug when you gently release his shoulders from your grasp and guide yourself away from his body. 

In the process of removing yourself from him, you twist your head out of its perch from his shoulder, and feel your lips ghost the side of his neck as you pull away.

Norman shivers.

And you realize what trace of maneuver you’ve just gone through with.

Taking a few steps back, you hastily apologize to him, your arms bared at your front for the slimmest chance that he might have been physically angry with you.

But when you dare to meet his eyes, flickering embers of confusion and curiosity shone in his dark brown pupils.

“What was that?” He mumbles in a soft tone.

“What.. was what?”

“That— That  _ thing _ you just did, Michael. What was  _ that _ ?” There isn’t the slightest hint of aggression in Norman’s voice.

You stare back at him, your arms lowering. “I.. I don’t know.” You admit. “I just..” You trail off, one hand brushing your neck in a half-hearted demonstration.

Norman gulps, and moves to leave less space between the two of you. “Would— would you be willing to replicate it?” He asks in a quiet tone, as if it were some horrible secret.

It certainly  _ felt _ like one, what with this kind of behavior being the main reason why you left your home.

“You want me to.. do it again?” You manage to squeak out.

“Please?” Norman mumbles far too politely.

So you do. 

You close the space between the two of you and rest your chin on his shoulder once again. You turn your face to his neck, and ghost your lips along it’s pale side until you’re right back where you started.

Norman’s hand moves to clench your arm. “A-again, please.” He requests shakily.

You nod, repeating your previous movements. You’re halfway down his neck when his grip around your arm tightens. 

“St-stay there.” He breathes out almost inaudibly.

You do so, you’re lips a mere breath away from his skin. 

“Guess you have a  _ spot _ .” You whisper, not wanting to admit that you genuinely enjoyed the  _ shiver _ Norman emitted after you did so. 

An idea struck you like goldmines from your father’s era.

As gently as you’re able, you push yourself away from Norman, much to his quiet displeasure. 

“You liked that? What I just did?” You question, despite knowing the clear answer. 

Norman nods, his face a red flush and his breathing audibly unsteady.

“I’m— I’m going to do something else, something we both might like. Are you okay with that?” You ask, your hands moving up to grip his shoulders. 

He nods, his face somehow growing redder. 

And, well, to put it bluntly, you kiss him. You fall closer to connect your lips with his, and wrap your forearms around his neck as he leans down to meet you close to halfway.

It lasts for just a moment, before Norman raises his hands between your bodies and edges you away, his eyes cloudy and pupils pinned.

“Why.. why did I  _ like _ that?” His voice is barely audible, laced with quiet shame.

You look away, eyeing your room’s door, unable to meet his confused gaze.

“That’s alright, Norman.” You say, just as quiet. “I liked it too.”

He tilts his head aside to meet your eyes. “Is it  _ really _ alright?” He asks. “I mean, I never thought about—” He cuts himself off, as if too afraid to finish his sentence.

You eye his face, which is painted in a perplexed expression; his eyebrows kinked over his upper lids, and his lips pursed as he thought carefully about his next words.

“Is  _ queer _ the right word, Micheal?” He asks, attention clearly paid to his choice of tone.

You glance at the wall, and look back at him. “I’m not sure, but it sounds like it’s the right word.” You reply.

You lean a tad closer to him, feeling bolder know that he’s at least got some basic knowledge of what’s going on between you two.

The flickering buzz of a nearly-burned out lightbulb sizzles down the hall and into the lobby. 

Norman’s eyes flash up and towards the sound. “I— I should check up on that.” He excuses himself, weaving around you and hurrying down the hallway.

A bit disappointed, you trail down the hallway and turn towards your door.  _ Room 1. _

“I’ll… be in my room.” You call into the lobby, hoping Norman actually hears you as he scurries to fetch a spare lightbulb from beneath the reception desk.

“Likely going to take a good— 15 or so minutes.” You inform him, before walking in and closing the door behind you. You neglect the thought to lock it.

Stripping off your shirt, which is still grungy and icy from your trip through the rain last night, you trudge across your room and into the bathroom.

You twist the knob of the shower’s water on, and pull up the nub to  _ actually _ spill water through the shower head.

You unbutton your pants and slip them off, along with your shoes and boxers, for what must’ve been the first time in a few days.

You pull the curtain ajar and step in, hissing slightly as you feel the hot water splash your nude figure.

You begin to lather your arms with soap, humming a quiet tune as you do so.

After a few minutes, you’ve moved onto your hair, which you soak with the little amount of provided shampoo.

You squint open your eyes to aim your reach towards the soap, when a faded silhouette against the shower curtain catches your gaze.

“Norman?” You question, assuming it surely  _ had to be him _ .

The shower curtain is yanked open by forceful hand, and, caught off guard, you flatten yourself against the cold tile wall of the shower.

The silver glint of a kitchen knife is shown in the bleak bathroom lightings.

You cannot see the perpetrator, but by their sheer visiousnes you’re sure it isn’t that sweet man you've known since Sunday.

When you’re caught up in your mind, that’s when the first stab is made.

It hits your torso, slotting and slitting between the lines of your ribcage.Its force alone nearly pins you back into the tile, and you shriek.

“ _ Norman! _ ” You call out in a frantic shout. “ _ Norman! Come in here! _ ’ You beg as the knife is thrusted out of your wound, and is driven into another section of your chest, just beside your heart.

The perpetrator twists the knife around as it is still inside you, and you feel it slice a slit into your heart.

Your calls for help have devolved into squeaks and gasps that only vaguely resemble Norman’s name, and you feel your knees buckle beneath your own dead weight. 

Slipping, you slump down against the cold tile, and your breaths are slow as you gasp out for Norman to “ _ Come. Come. Help. Help. Norman. I’m bleeding.” _

In a pleading blindness, you reach out your hand and rattle the curtain on its hangers, the bar echoing a loud clatter of metal and plastic.

The kitchen knife is yanked from your chest, slicing open more of your veins as it is pulled haphazardly from beside your heart.

Your breathing is no longer gasps, but long and strained groans as you try in vain to rattle the curtains and alert Norman of the imminent danger.

Your movements die down, and your final breath is released as your eyes drag up to meet your killer’s. Dark brown disks, they flicker like embers as they watch your dark velvet blood lap out of your wounds.

And with that, you die.


End file.
